Franz left his car keys in the backseat of his Camry,
He was locked out,
He was jimmying the door with a Swiss Army knife,
Trying to pry it open.

I just got out of class,
I held the knife as he pulled at the door handle,
Keeping him company.

Then there was a man behind us,
Yelling at both Franz and me.

Put your hands up and step away from the car,
A police cruiser pulled up,
Two more men jumped out
Already armed,
Guns drawn,
Aimed right between my eyes,
I can look down the barrels,
See glimmers of copper.

Put your hands behind your head,
Oh **** we're ******* dead,
Get on your knees,
Don't look away, look at me,
We both did what the men with badges and guns said,
We tried to explain ourselves.

One man picked me up off the asphalt,
Walked me over,
And pinned me on the hood of the cruiser,
The paint was fresh.

Another man took my backpack,
Shook out the contents,
His smirk told me he wasn't satisfied, not yet.

He then searched through my jacket pockets,
Patted me down,
A dark kid in nice clothes.

It all seems to check out.

After his heart attack, all foods tasted better. Strawberry juice tasted like sweet nectar. He did not raise his voice higher than a confident whisper; the same tone one would use to console a worried younger brother. He said it hurt when he laughed, then he showed us the stitches he had. They carved him open from his sternum to right below his esophagus. It looked like the surgeons used white shoelaces to keep his chest from spilling open. Then I wondered whether a bunny-ears knot kept the stitches from unraveling. He showed us that he had no stitches or scars on his back, but it looked as if a daddy-long-leg, with sewing needles for legs, hiked across the right side of his neck in his sleep. He walked at an infant's pace, but told us he was going to be okay. He told us he used to live, now he loves.